Prostrate in Prada
by mskathy
Summary: Edward forgot the milk. "You know what to do," she said. BDSM, Subward


**A/N: Thank you to the ladies that organized the fandom4floods project. I am honored to take part in the fundraising efforts for Australia, and glad that you donated to read all of these fabulous pieces from so many talented authors... and me, too. **

**My endless thanks to TwilightMundi, my fabulous beta, and to my pre-reader who never holds back, moojuicey. You both push me in all the right ways, and I cannot express my thanks enough.**

**This is an M-Rated Edward/Bella Twilight fanfiction story for adults only, so if you are under the age of consent in your area, please skip this. Thank you.**

**All copyright and trademarked items mentioned herein belong to their respective owners. The remaining content is all mine. No copying or reproduction of this work is permitted without my express written authorization.**

.

**EPOV**

I'd lost a case – my second that week – and was in no mood for the bullshit I encountered on my usually mundane drive home. Traffic had been a nightmare, forcing me to arrive even later than I anticipated. As my key turned in the lock of our front door, the clicking noise jarred my brain. It was the reminder of the sound I'd heard a thousand times before, echoed (at times) in other circumstances, and I realized I was in deep shit.

She'd texted me two hours before to ask me to bring home milk. I'd forgotten, and I knew I'd be punished for it.

I considered removing the key as quietly as I could and slowly creeping back to my car, but that was no use. The guilt I'd feel at the lie would eat me up inside, and besides, I never lied to her. Ever.

I walked through the door, knowing she'd be waiting. Sure enough, the first thing I saw when the door was closed behind me was her beautiful body. Parts were covered with fabric and girly things I'd long forgotten the name of, but she was there in all her glory. _Mine._

Her eyebrow arched. "Forgot?" The tiniest tinge of disappointment filtered through the single word, and I wanted to scream and swear in my defense, shielding myself from the guilt at letting her down. I wanted to shout, explain how fucking rough my day had been, my whole week, for that matter.

Instead, I nodded slowly, my eyes greeting the floor.

"You know what to do," she said.

Dropping to my knees, I crawled to her. My head was still lowered, and I was suddenly fucking pissed that I'd picked my Prada suit for court. I could only hope the hardwood wouldn't scuff the knees, forcing me to scrap it. It was bad enough my Magli's were digging into the top of my foot at this angle.

The few steps it took me to get to her were a good reminder of my chosen role. The role I agreed to play each time we took on these identities. It was a reminder, though it didn't eliminate my sour mood.

When the top of her shiny black boot was within my sight, I stopped and took a moment to try and compose myself. After a deep breath, I placed my open palms on my knees and lowered my lips to the glistening patent leather. Once I'd kissed the top of each shoe, I resumed my semi-upright position.

Quiet consumed the room, and I could tell she hadn't anticipated my failure. Sometimes, it seemed as though she knew me better than I knew myself; knew when I'd need more, want less, fail a task, or succeed with flying colors. The failure of my one simple task from her simply compounded the misery churning in my brain, and the fact that she hadn't anticipated it made it worse. Now I'd derailed what was probably supposed to be fun time together.

Just as the quiet began to really settle in my bones, keeping the failure and self-flagellation good company, I heard her move. I could only tell that she'd moved away from me because she left my line of sight. Her heavy sigh and brief _tsk_ compounded my feelings of inadequacy and my body tensed. Again, the urge to cry, hit something, or yell itched at my skin.

I waited, though, because it was what I was commanded to do.

The next part of this particular ritual should have been for her to move closer to me, not farther away, so I was confused. My brain spun on the potential things she was doing, and I closed my eyes, attempting to relax and forget everything else. A few deep breaths later, my shoulders had slumped the tiniest bit, which I became sharply aware of when I felt what I assumed was the lick of the crop against my right side.

"Simply because I walk away does not mean you can disrespect me with poor posture, Edward."

Her voice was sharp – much sharper than the instrument of pain and pleasure she'd used – and full of anticipation, which gave me a shred of hope that our night would not just involve punishment.

Then her body was in front of me again, shoes visible, her scent lingering around me.

"Go ahead," she said.

Lifting my head, I placed one kiss at the apex of her thighs, right over her panties. "I'm sorry, Ma'am," I said quietly.

"You will be, Pretty Boy," she whispered back.

I bit my cheek to keep from smirking; even while punishing me, she never lost her playfulness. I didn't need to see her face to know her words were spoken with mischief.

"Stand."

I did as she demanded, rising up to my feet again. The crop struck my clothing, the effect dampened by expensive cotton as she slapped it against the back of my thighs.

"Jacket," she said.

Sparse words were all she needed; pleasantries just a waste of time between us at that point.

My jacket hit the floor and I tried not to wince at the thought of it crumpled around my feet. The reminder of the expensive fabric made my face contort briefly, but I pulled my blank expression back quickly. It wasn't the time to think about money or worries. It was the time to focus on her, on me, on us. On pleasure, after my brief tangle with what I was certain would be pain.

Bella hummed as she moved around to the front of me and, using my tie as a pulley, brought my lips to hers. I was already hard, already wanting, and so was she, apparently. My lips yielded to hers, just as they always did in that position, and I waited for her to extract her next demands from my body. When she was satisfied, she pushed slightly, causing me to almost stumble back. Almost.

"Shirt, but leave the tie on."

I knew she was watching me as each button slipped through the hole, and I admit, I enjoyed her attention in that way. In every way, actually. Being on display for her like that was intense and perfect. Only for her would I ever behave this way. Anyone else that had demanded such things from me would have gotten a mouthful of obscenities and likely a few gestures to complete the response.

The fabric fell from my shoulders, hitting the ground with nothing but a whisper of noise as it joined my jacket. My anal-retentive side mourned again.

The crop flicked at my exposed nipples, and I was brought back into the moment. It hurt, but not more than a slight sting, and the warmth that replaced it as it faded spread through my chest.

"Couch."

As I walked past her, she swung the leather against my ass. She followed me, swatting away as we walked. I liked knowing she was watching me, commanding me, bidding me to continue.

Once I sat on the leather, I focused my vision on the coffee table. She had white rope, lube, nipple clamps, and a few other toys laid out. My body tensed and shivered. Nothing there struck me as punishment material, especially not while I was sitting, and that meant she was likely headed for the psychological.

_Fuck me._

"Hands," she said.

Before she began, the skin of her fingers slid against mine and the heat between us grew. I watched as she wound the rope around my wrists, twisting, turning, overlapping, until she was satisfied. She used knots I have no knowledge of, and secured everything in such a way that I didn't second-guess her actions.

When she finished, her hands moved to the zipper on my pants. She slid it down slowly, the vibration of each tooth unhooking sending little sparks down my cock. Without hesitating, her hand snaked beneath the fabric fly of my boxer briefs and brought my erection out.

"I love how you're always ready for me, my good boy," she said, using her other hand to angle my face up so that I was looking into her eyes. "Ready for your punishment?"

"Yes Ma'am," I said.

"Good. This," she said, bending to lick the small bead of precum from the tip of my cock, "is all mine. You are to sit, stroke, and watch, but not come."

She didn't bother to ask if I understood – they were simple enough instructions.

As she picked up the nipple clamps, I watched her body. She was lithe and fit, but round in the right ways. I wanted to bite her hip and bend her over the couch, fuck her senseless, but it was her turn to be in charge, not mine. My patience would be rewarded, I knew.

I realized she was going to use the clamps on herself, and almost whimpered. I wanted them, needed the pain of them digging into my skin. As she attached each one around her plump, pink nipples, I bit my lip, mimicking the slow burn of intense throbbing she was no doubt experiencing.

She reclined in the chair next to the couch, propping her boots up on the table. The stockings she had on went up to the curve of her thigh, attached to garters. My eyes kept scanning up, soaking in the space of bare flesh from the top of her panties to the bottom of her bra. I hadn't even noticed her other hand shift and move until I felt the sting against my thigh.

"Why are you not obeying my orders? Do you not want to please me and apologize for your error?"

"I'm sorry," I said quickly.

My fingertips surrounded sensitive skin, but after a few strokes, I realized I'd need lube or some assistance if I was going to keep going. If I had lube, though, I'd come too quickly. I decided to grip the base of my cock and slowly stroke over the top, hoping this would be acceptable to her.

Moving my eyes from my own body back to hers, I watched as her fingers slid beneath the material of her panties. She slouched further, knees opening wider, and moved her other hand to join the first. From practice, I knew she'd be burying several fingers deep inside herself as her other hand worked her clit, and my body twitched at the thought. Frankly, I was glad I couldn't actually see it, fabric keeping most of her hidden, my mind building the sight from memory.

As her head fell back onto the chair, I watched her breathing. I knew her intimately, carefully, and I could tell she was already having trouble holding back, practiced as she was in the art of withholding her own orgasm. Watching her reminded me of the times I had her bound, gagged, taking her to the brink repeatedly. God, I wanted that so much, but knew I needed this more right then.

Her legs tensed, and I watched her mouth with greed as the most salacious noises and words fell from it. My own muscles contracted, holding myself back from joining her as she came. I wanted to be between her thighs, licking and teasing her, the one to provoke her orgasm. At the very least, I wanted to tug on the chain between the clamps, aid her efforts however I could, but even that wasn't allowed now that I'd disappointed her by forgetting.

Punishment, indeed.

More like torture – watching her, smelling and hearing her, but not touching or tasting her. Fucking in our house, even making love, had always been a highly sensory experience for both of us, even before we dabbled.

It took everything I had to sit and stroke and wait, and she knew it.

When the smile appeared on her face, I knew she would soon withdraw her fingers, allowing me to taste her. I anticipated it, serving her and licking her hand clean, and my mouth watered. Glistening fingers appeared before me and I instinctively leaned in with an open mouth. Except, she didn't push them in, as she had so many times before. Instead, she fucking winked at me as her own lips wrapped around the fingers.

_Mine._

My brow furrowed at being denied.

She laughed, knowing what the look on my face meant, knowing how much her denial had frustrated me. She was so fucking good at this game.

Straddling my lap, her body forced my hand to stop, everything becoming slightly awkward and uncomfortable for me.

"Did you want a taste?" she asked, her head tilted to the side, words teasing.

"Yes, Ma'am." I could tell my own voice was deflated, defeated.

"Here you go, sweet boy. Clean them up."

Fingers invaded my mouth before I could comprehend she'd put the other hand in. How I'd forgotten she had two hands involved was beyond me, but I didn't give it much thought as my tongue slipped over her skin, bringing as much of her into my mouth as I could.

As fast as they'd slid in, they were gone.

"Good job," she said, moving back off my lap. "Stand up, drop your pants, and bend over the back of the couch now."

Moving quickly, I did as she asked, my task made more difficult without the use of my hands to help balance my actions. Once I was over the couch and had fumbled with my pants enough to get them semi-removed, I closed my eyes and waited, willing my body to relax. I heard the rattling noise of chain and assumed she was removing the clamps from her body, and again, pleasure shot through me as my brain relived the sensations she was sure to be feeling.

She didn't bother to tell me how many strikes I would receive, nor remind me of my infraction. The first blow was a warning – gentle and right at the fleshiest part of my ass. I could tell from the angle of where she stood and the intensity of it that she was using a paddle.

I counted them in my head, hoping she wouldn't give me too many, but accepting that she'd give as many as she wanted – as many as she felt I needed. The first few stung, and the last few genuinely hurt. I was grateful that it was Friday and I wouldn't have to explain to my co-workers why I grimaced each time I sat.

After each swat, the physical pain seemed to overlap my self-deprecation. Each time it hurt, it felt like penance. If I could pay there, remit my anger and moments of self-hatred in exchange for each strike, I knew the pleasure that waited for me on the other side would be increased tenfold.

The cool skin of her palm pressed against the hot, stinging flesh of my bottom and I winced. She rubbed, watching my face, no doubt listening to my choppy breathing.

"Is my toy ready for more playing?"

Bella knew what her words did to me, and as soon as I heard them, my entire body stiffened. I was more than ready, especially since her tone and word selection meant we'd moved beyond punishment.

"Yes please," I said.

"Bed, naked, on your back."

My smirk was hidden from her, thankfully. I toed my shoes off where I'd been standing, letting my pants fall away from my body as well. As I headed to our room, articles of clothing were carefully stripped off with just my fingertips, landing wherever they landed; I no longer cared. I climbed onto the bed, flopped on my back, and did all I could to be patient. My thoughts were filled with her, naked and above me, panting below me, next to me and spooned against my body.

When she arrived, she placed one boot up on the edge of the mattress and slowly slid the zipper down. Once the leather was gone from her foot, she wiggled her toes at me and I obliged her silent request, kissing her toes. The other boot disappeared similarly and then the stockings were carefully removed. Finally, she was down to her panties and bra, and she moved to straddle my face.

Still bound, my hands were positioned at my groin, and I fought not to touch myself as she pressed her pussy against my face. She moved haphazardly, grinding and seeking her pleasure from me as quickly as she could, reminding me with her words just how much she loved using me for her lascivious needs. I nipped and licked, trying to move the fabric away so that I could taste just her, but it was no use. As she'd said, I was her toy and she would bend me to her will, play with me as she saw fit, and use me however she wanted. How we both needed her to.

With her perched above me and my torso lifted to reach as much of her as I could, my lower half pressed into the bed painfully. It hurt, but I wanted to please her more than I cared about the pain, so I continued. Watching her bounce, her whole body alive and vibrating, made me want to be inside her more than ever. I was ready to give anything to be able to fuck her. She could have asked me for whatever she wanted and I'd gladly have given it, and more.

I watched as she came, felt her against my tongue as her clit pulsed. Her fingernails dug into my scalp, fingers tightening around my hair and whatever else she could grab onto. That was what I lived for, right there, in that moment. The power I felt, the usefulness, the need. In that moment, all of my feelings of inadequacy from before eased, and my purpose was so clear to me.

She slowed, fingers loosening their grip, body easing away from my face, and my own breathing came easier as she did. As she moved down my body, writhing all the way, I used my fingers to the best of my abilities. Smiling down at me, she laughed and kissed me once she could.

When she reached my hips with hers, she straddled me and sat up. Her fingers worked quickly, undoing the knots, then unwinding the rope binding my hands. As the air hit my slightly damp skin, I tried not to shiver. Once I'd wiggled my fingers, I looked up into her eyes. I wanted to touch her, fuck her, prove how good I could be for her.

"Soon," she whispered, pressing her lips to mine again.

A few more teasing moments later, she'd settled herself hovering over my length, then pressed her body down. I laid still, keeping the rules in my mind, and watched as she fucked me. My fingers tingled, almost trembling with the need to do something other than rest at my sides, but my brain over-ruled them.

She moved faster, and my hips screamed to thrust up into her. I moved my fingers to the edges of my body, connecting the skin to skin and praying this would help my self-control. I kept my eyes open, watching her, hoping it would ease the ache of wanting to touch – if my eyes could lay against her skin, maybe it would be enough. It would have to be, for the moment.

Her hand wrapped around my wrist, then pulled my hand to where we joined. It was a small concession on her part, but it thrilled me that she allowed me to be helpful in this way, again. The tips of my fingers played with her, not teasing exactly, but exploring for a brief moment before falling into the rhythmic pattern I knew she loved.

Feeling her come around me and knowing I couldn't wasn't as difficult as it had been in the beginning of our play years ago, but still took effort and concentration. My legs tensed as my self-control wound tightly again, and I waited for her orgasm to subside.

A quiet, content hum vibrated through her chest, now lying directly against mine.

"Should I let you come, sweet boy? Or should I make you wait a few days?"

She was teasing, we both knew, since there was no agreement beyond this span of time between us, and she'd never torture me by making me wait, but the thought of it, the idea that she held such power over me, almost made me come in that instant.

"Please," I said. "Please don't make me wait."

I loved playing her game by her rules, and she knew it.

After she caught her breath, she bit at my shoulder where her mouth rested.

"Make it good, Edward."

And that was my cue.

In that space, I never failed. I was never a losing lawyer or a forgetful husband, I was only an expert lover. A sometimes submissive. Perfection.

Our size difference worked to my favor and I gripped her hips tightly with my hands. Hard and fast, I began to push into her and pull back, almost the entire way out. I felt raw in every sense of the word, physically, mentally, spiritually. I was open and exposed to her more in this moment than most times in my life.

Above me, she trembled, she moaned, she almost begged. Almost. She knew there was no need, though, because I'd never stop until she was satisfied. Her hand slipped between us and sooner than I would have thought possible with the previous three orgasms, she was whispering profanities.

My grunts weren't even something I could control, the frustration with holding everything back simply escaping vocally. When she finally told me I could have my orgasm, my movements became even more frantic and erratic. I held her tighter, pulling her whole upper body to mine, then moving my hands back to her ass. It was only moments later when my own orgasm tore through me, like my entire body was on fire. It was, I suppose, on fire for her.

I took in the brief few moments after my orgasm and before we'd separate and basked in them. My wife, my mistress, sometimes my submissive, always my lover – she was gorgeous in each of these roles. These private moments between us were priceless to me.

We had our rituals and routines post-play, and as we went through the steps, we maintained a physical proximity. I knew how she felt after, thanks to our many discussions, and she knew how I felt. We eased each other's pain and quieted the at-times screaming anxieties, just as we'd done in the previous hours with our play.

After we'd bathed together, grabbed a snack as we talked quietly in the kitchen, and then snuggled beneath the comforter on our bed, the quiet wrapped around us. I smiled, and I knew she was smiling too. We were lucky to have found each other, lucky to have been able to be honest with each other about our needs, and lucky enough to have the patience to give to each other.


End file.
